“Abe, you couldn’t sleep. That’s not like you. Is it about the war?”

June 1964

The martyrdom was coming to its blessed end. The clink of cocktail glasses, the lipsticked air kisses, the polite conversation and elegant dresses: predictable people, saying predictable things, living their predictable lives. This dinner party, given by her parents a few days after Marjorie’s graduation, was boring, boring, boring!

Catching a glimpse of herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror, Marjorie grinned; her first sincere smile of the evening. At least on one issue, she’d won. Right after graduation she’d gone shopping (what an ordeal!) with Mother, trying on the best of what Bergdorf, Saks, and Lord & Taylor had to offer: sophisticated A-line dresses trimmed with delicate lace, accessorized with a string of pearls and (omigosh!) matching gloves. When Mother had told her how important it was for her make a good impression at this party, Marjorie had countered by pointing out that, “Mother, it’s not 1955 anymore, no one wears gloves except for snowball fights.” Marjorie’s own suggestion — “I hear you can get really groovy dresses in the Village, with beads and matching headbands” — Mother had simply ignored.

Then came the brainstorm. It was a crazy idea, but maybe, just maybe, Majorie could sell it to Mother.  “I’ve got a great idea. What about doing something very chic and sophisticated?” Mother looked both suspicious and intrigued. “It’s my graduation party, right? So I’ll come in my cap and gown.”

Though her initial reaction was shock overlaid with horror, Marjorie soldiered on. “Think about it,” she said, using her sweetest and most persuasive voice. “It will be a fashion statement that will make all the guests madly jealous of you.”

Whether it was Marjorie’s powers of persuasion or her own aching feet after hours of fruitless search in every department store and boutique in town, Mrs. Burton had allowed herself to be convinced and had approved the idea as a bold and trendy one. And so Marjorie triumphantly greeted the guests wearing her graduation cap and — if Mother noticed, Marjorie would catch it, but it was worth the risk — sandals peeking out beneath her flowing gown.

They’d been through the lobster bisque appetizer (when the hired waiter offered it to Marjorie, Perele Schwartz’s face swam before her, and she politely refused), the beef Wellington with bearnaise sauce, and the Baked Alaska. Marjorie had suffered through the congratulations of her parents’ friends and her father’s business colleagues and gave the same answer to what seemed dozens of people who asked her what would come next. “I’m still working on it.”

Not exactly true. She had plans, big plans.

And now, with graduation done and this senseless party finally over with, it was time to speak to Mother and Father about those plans. About the future.